❛ milk & honey ❜ redux | part one
Rupi Kaur (born 5 October 1992) is a Canadian poet, writer, illustrator and performer. She published a book of poetry and prose entitled milk and honey in 2015. The book deals with themes of violence, abuse, love, loss, and femininity. milk and honey has sold over a million copies, reaching #1 and spending over a year on the New York Times bestsellers list. (source)
There is another Milk & Honey sentence meme going around in the rpc, but I decided to break out my copy and give it a shot. This will be split up into three or four (or more?) parts just like the book.
Feel free to rephrase and change pronouns/words to fit your muse/the situation. For
How is it so easy for you to be kind to people?
He was the first boy to teach me my body was for giving to those that wanted.
You have been taught your legs are a pit stop for for men that need to rest. A vacant body empty enough for guests, but no one ever comes and is willing to stay.
It is your blood in my veins. How am I supposed to forget?
You were so afraid of my voice, I decided to be afraid of it too.
Every time you tell your daughter you yell at her out of love, you teach her to confuse anger with kindness.
I’ve had sex, but I don’t know what making love feels like.
If I knew what safety looked like, I would have spent less time falling into arms that are not.
The idea that we are so capable of love, but still choose to be toxic…
The ___ will tear you in half, but it will not end you.
You have sadness living in places sadness shouldn’t live.
A daughter should not have to beg her father for a relationship.
Trying to convince myself I should take up space is like writing with my left hand when I was born to use my right.
The idea of shrinking is hereditary.
You tell me to quiet down because my opinions make me less beautiful.
I was not made with a fire in my belly so I could be put out.
I was not made with a lightness on my tongue so I could be easy to swallow.
I was made heavy: half blade and half silk; difficult to forget and not easy for the mind to follow.
Your mother is in the habit of offering more love than you can carry.
You are a war: the border between two countries, the collateral damage.
The art of being empty is simple.
The only reason you know you’re still alive is from the heaving of your chest.
You look just like your mother. You both have the same eyes—and the hands.
You look just like your mother.
You both have the same eyes—and the hands.
I guess I do carry her tenderness well.
But your rage… Your mother doesn’t wear that anger.
The rage is the one thing I get from my father.
The women in my family learned to live with their mouths closed.
You always call to say nothing in particular. You ask what I’m doing or where I am and when the silence stretches like a lifetime between us, I scramble to find questions to keep the conversation going.
I don’t blame you for not knowing how to remain soft with me.
theartofmadeline
blakekathryn
